Chapter 8 - The Missed Footstep
The afternoon heat inside the shed was oppressive, thick with the chemical stench of lawn fertilizer. Clara flattened herself into the oil-stained sawdust behind the mower's rear tire, her hand clamped over her mouth. Her lungs burned for oxygen, but she dared not exhale even a whisper.
The guard stepped over the threshold, his heavy work boots thudding against the plywood floor. In the narrow gaps between the engine casing and the rear wheel, Clara could see his black trousers and the radio clipped to his belt. He paused, scanning the racks of hand tools on the opposite wall. His boot kicked an empty plastic bucket, sending it skittering across the floorboards with an echoing rattle.
A contraction struck Clara with the force of an electric shock. Her entire abdomen seized, her spine bowing involuntarily against the shed's rough wooden frame. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her teeth into the meat of her thumb to stifle the moan rising in her throat. Sweat poured down her temples, stinging her eyes.
The guard took another step forward, his boots stopping less than eighteen inches from Clara’s face. He reached out and lifted an uncoiled garden hose from a peg, tossing it aside as if searching for something specific. Then, his personal cell phone began to vibrate against his hip, playing a flat, standard ringtone.
He grunted, pulled the device from his pocket, and answered without stepping outside. ""Yeah?"" he muttered. A pause, during which a woman's voice buzzed faintly through the speaker. ""No, everything's quiet. I checked the perimeter doors. The locks are holding. She isn't making a sound inside.""
May you like
He turned toward the open doorway, tossing his cigarette butt into the gravel outside. ""I'm heading down to the gatehouse to log the exit. Call me when the Cabo flight confirms the return dinner reservations.""
He stepped out, letting the heavy wooden shed door swing shut behind him with a dull thud. Clara waited until the crunch of his boots faded completely down the driveway before she allowed her forehead to drop into the sawdust. When she raised her head again, she saw a crimson trail tracing down the inner seam of her gray lounge shorts. The time for escape had expired; the birth was happening now.
